Logan shifts beside me, not touching, not crowding—just close enough that I can feel him.
His voice is barely audible. “You okay?”
I whip my head toward him, eyes flashing. “Do I look okay, Logan?”
Logan shakes his head once before reaching for me. “Come here.”
“What are you—” My words are cut off as his arms wrap around me. My entire body goes tense at first, but within seconds I can feel myself melting into him, and the tears don’t stay hidden.
A sob breaks loose before I can swallow it down, and I lean into him more. His hands rub calming circles on my lower back, and I let myself fall apart in his arms.
When I finally get it together, I lift my head from his chest, noting the wet spot my tears have obviously left behind.
Wordlessly, I swallow hard, then turn and walk down the hall toward my room before I do something humiliating—like cry even more or admit that Pops just tried to have a goodbye conversation and that I couldn’t handle the mere thought of losing him, when it’s soon to be my reality.
I make it to my room and close the door softly behind me.
Then I slide down it, breathing hard, heart pounding.
My bracelet sits heavy on my wrist, a tiny reminder that means too much.
I press my fist to my mouth to keep the sound in.
Because I didn’t let Pops finish saying everything he wanted to say.
I didn’t let myself hear the whole truth.
But for the first time, I can’t block out the horrible, brutal truth.
Pops gave me a glimpse, just for a second, of a world that he isn’t part of.
And I don’t know how to survive that.
23
LOGAN
Walking into the weight room at PCU reminds me of a past version of my life that used to be uncomplicated.
It hits me the second I step through the doors—before I even see the racks, before I hear the plates clanging, before someone shouts across the room like they own it. My body recognizes this place like muscle memory.
My knee does too.
It tightens under the brace with every step, stiff from the drive, stiff from the cold morning air that’s more crisp than cold—California winter pretending it has a bite. I’m not on crutches anymore, but the slight limp is still there, controlled and humiliating in the way only an injury can be when you’re used to your body doing what you tell it.
Coach Harding texted me yesterday:
Coach Harding: Stop by. Just want to see you.
Which, translated, means:I need to know you’re still you.
My hand pauses on the door handle like a traitor.
Three months ago, I walked in here with purpose, with certainty, with the whole building under my feet and my future in front of me.
Now, I’m walking in like I’m borrowing space.
Like I don’t belong in my own life.
